


Chirp, please!

by bahjrc



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: (Tags can be added.), AU, Alternate Universe, Anxiety Disorder Mentions, Different Timelines AU, Eventual Smut, Everyone needs help., F/M, Family Issues, Fluff and Angst, FootballPlayer!Bitty, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, References to Depression, Slow Burn, Team as Family, zimbits - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-29
Updated: 2016-04-21
Packaged: 2018-05-29 20:52:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6393358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bahjrc/pseuds/bahjrc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack Zimmerman grew to live up to expectations and inherit his father's Hockey career. There were some bumps and bruises in the path but he was sure to be on the way, from Samwell on. Thing is, for all the loneliness and suffering he went through, there was someone else in the world going through the same, someone with narrower shoulders and doe-like eyes.<br/><br/>[aka]<br/>[That Football Player AU.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Boy Named Fifteen

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheSawJones](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSawJones/gifts).



**A Boy Named Fifteen (or) On Your Left**

Jack Zimmerman’s routine, from the moment he gets back on campus, is like a well–kept clock. It’s been the same ever since he started in Samwell, with the one exception being the housing change at the end of his freshman year, when he moved in to the Haus. It’s important to him – to have an unbreakable routine, or rather, an unchangeable one. Hockey is his sole focus. 

Sure it’s one of the reasons as to why the boys kept calling him a robot, but he doesn’t mind it all that much. It’s one of those things he’d stablished in rehab and with his therapist - that a well set routine would help him focus on what was important and hell– Hockey was **The** Most Important Thing in his life. So yes, his routine revolved around being as good as possible and helping himself to stay upright. Getting chirped because of it would obviously come along. Did he care? Just a little. 

It’s August twelfth and technically pre-season hasn’t even started yet, to that point the attic is empty and he knows Ransom and Holster are arriving only later on this very same day. The feeling of emptiness in the Haus when someone’s away always brings back the familiar knot in his throat, the kind of low anxiety in the pit of his stomach that isn’t really enough to cause anything, but the eventual heartache. There’s nothing like a morning run to will it away – at five in the morning, on a Monday. Considering there are no classes going on yet, Jack feels like the least he could do is dedicate his spare time to the upcoming season. 

As per usual.

Lost in thought, he does everything automatically - steps down to the kitchen, eats an apple, puts on his sneakers and leaves the house. There’s almost no one out at this time, and considering Campus life has just started again, the place feels eerily empty, almost distressingly calm and, to Jack, its kinda funny not seeing anyone coming out of their one night stands from the dorms and frat houses on his way. Jack allows himself to zone out and keeps his thoughts on the nearest strategies, Hockey and all that. He’s through the north quad, lost in his own wandering mind, absently keeping a good pace, when someone runs past him. 

“On your left.” 

And Jack Zimmerman almost stops to a halt when the boy runs past him. 

Now, he assesses a lot of things at once. First of them is, he had just been called slow by someone else, he had been _chirped_ by some random. Second, he was short. He could likely be almost a solid foot shorter than Holster. The Samwell jersey he wore was clearly low on his shoulders, one or two sizes too big – with a Number Fifteen on his back. Third, he wore really short red shorts. So short the hem of the jersey almost hit where the shorts ended, showing sun kissed legs that despite the guy’s stature, could go on for days.  
So basically Jack had just been challenged by a small tanned blond guy that could outrun a gazelle. 

He picks up his pace and almost matches the kid (he looked like a kid, probably some freshman) and the boy cranes over his shoulder (damn his big doe-eyes) to smirk at him. He’s got earbuds on, his iPod hidden somewhere under the red jersey. They’re running almost to a pair when blondie decides to just sprint as if challenging Jack. It’s both fun and annoying. 

He usually doesn’t have this much emotion or company at the early hours. Sure, sometimes Shitty joins him, but never this early, mostly the late night runs when he’s too anxious to stay idle in the Haus. Jack picks up his pace again to try and keep up with the boy but realizes he might lose that one, - he can catch up, but keeping that rhythm? He wasn’t insane, it might as well give himself a heart attack. 

Half an hour into that intense run and Jack gives up, slowing down again until almost a halt – they’ve practically reached the suburbs into that insane sprint. He thinks Blond Guy will disappear, keep up with his training, but once Jack slows down, he does the same. They turn around to go back to Samwell, keeping up their acceptable human pace. There’s no talking happening – considering how short of breath he is, Jack’s thankful for that too. Not to mention that this kid is a complete stranger, and he’d have no idea of what to say. 

Clearly, Running Blond has the same idea, because once they reach the river quad again, the boy looks back at him, smiles (a very cute smile) and waves, then runs away like he’s trying for an actual marathon, leaving Jack behind on the dust. Of two things Jack was sure, then: He had never met someone with that much drive before (other than himself), and somehow, he was hoping to see him again.

\-----//-----

Jack versus Number 15 happens twice more on that same week – Wednesday and Friday.  
(The Captain-y part of him wants to reprimand Number 15 for texting while running, but he’s not a teammate, so he doesn’t.)

\-----//-----

On the following week, he doesn’t know if he should expect 15 on Monday morning, when the chirp comes from his left. It happens again on Wednesday and Friday.

\-----//-----

“On your left.”

It’s been three weeks, pre-season has started, and for three weeks, three times a week, he’s been having a running companion. In no moment it occurred him to ask his name or which team he was going to play for (but Jack could make a few assumptions, like Track and Field, probably, considering all the running; or swimming, maybe, where he’d seen small guys like that and all, but then, why the number 15? Honestly, there was a lot of speculation in his mind every time after their morning runs, and even though he could either just straight out ask the guy, or ask _someone else_ , he refused to do so), or why he did that at five in the morning at what seemed to be every single day. 

For three weeks then he’s been in a better mood than he’d be in a normal setting – Shitty asks him why almost every day, and Rans and Holts and the rest of the team seem just as confused by the fact. He has yet to snap at them, but it’s Johnson’s unsettling knowing gaze that makes him uncomfortable. Jack can’t tell why he’s been in a lighter mood, but it probably has to do with the fact he’s been waking up to the company of someone who had little to do with his Hockey life, and probably didn’t know who he was. Someone that gave him a reason to wake up in the morning.

Jack had started to look forward to hear on your left’ in his mornings at some point – as much as he looked up to be in the rink with the Team later on. 

They never talked, and he only knew what the guy sort of sounded like because of the sort-of-chirp whenever he ran past Jack, exactly ten minutes after he started his daily exercise routine (he’d been counting). He left Number 15 establish the pace every time and found out he didn’t mind it at all - some days were crazy sprinting, and others were just actual tracking, for about an hour or so. Although they never exchanged a word, they exchanged companion glances and nods – seeing people coming out from the frats and sororities after late nights, holding their shoes and heels, and sometimes almost buck naked as they squirmed away. It made the two of them laugh. (He had a soft spot for Number’s 15 smile, which the blond boy did a lot.)

(When he shows up with a nice shiner on his chin from rough-housing with Shitty and hitting the floor by accident, Number 15 nods at him with his big doe eyes in a silent question, as in ‘what happened’. Jack waves dismissively and shrugs. The boy shakes his head with a soft smile as if he knows exactly what happened. Jack realizes he appreciates their silent understanding, but a part of him wants to hear his voice a little bit more.)

He'd learned a few things about Number 15 so far. 

He clearly liked warmth and sun, which was a bit sad considering how far North he was – and probably came from somewhere warm, though he wasn’t from the coast. He couldn’t peg just for one phrase, but he had an accent Jack couldn’t point where it came from, though it was obviously not Canadian, or northern at all. Considering his tan, however, he could be from California. 

His cell phone seemed permanently glued to him – and he had daft fingers that tapped real fast. Jack patented a new glare that consisted in raising his eyebrows at his companion until he put down the phone and focused on the run. Whenever that happened, he’d smile unabashedly as if he liked to push Jack’s buttons. 

He liked songs Jack had no idea about. He always had his earbuds on, always blaring something the Hockey captain couldn’t understand, but he could recognize the familiar melodies most times, from the Haus parties and Holster’s loud singing. Clearly, they didn’t listen to the same kind of music. Still, it was amusing. Sometimes Number 15 sang something under his labored breath, humming to the lyrics or tapping his hands as if he was _really_ into the music. Jack would eye him curiously at first, but now he just enjoyed watching. 

Looking up to wake at five in the morning, when all of his teammates were still fast asleep, became a thing. 

\-----//-----

In their fourth week of running, Jack realizes Number 15 isn’t really happy about doing so in the mornings, or is even particularly excited about it. Which explains why they don’t do talking, or why he never takes his earbuds off, but the Hockey Captain commends him for his perseverance. Taking he’s probably a freshman and pre-season is about to finish for all varsity teams, the guy is clearly doing his best to keep up with whatever work he’s got going. Jack _i]knows_ this has probably to do with a scholarship, and admires him even more for it. He’s never needed one, and doesn’t take the spot of anyone in his team for one, but he knows keeping one up is ridiculously stressful and a lot of hard work. He’s there for the Hockey more than anything, to decide if it’s the career he _wants_ to follow, and not just because people expect him to. 

Jack doesn’t realize at first that Number 15 is happy to see him in the mornings too. 

(Pre-season is over, but they still meet in the mornings to run. Number 15 looks as tired as Jack feels, but such is the fate of varsity members.)

A month and a half into their odd running arrangement, he realizes that ‘on your left’ became their inside joke, and he can’t hear it anymore without thinking of Number 15 - blond hair, short stature and legs that could go on forever. Bright short shorts – and at least two different Samwell 15 jerseys, from a team he doesn’t know.  
He doesn’t tell his parents about his morning jog friend-companion-whatever-he-was, but his mom asks if something good happened once. He doesn’t realize it has to do with something other than Hockey, and just tells her he’s been having more good days than bad ones lately.

It’s only after two months of running, from 5:10 in the morning on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays together, that Number 15 doesn’t show up on a Friday.  
Jack needs to tell himself that he’s either out with his team, slept in or doing something else – he has to convince himself that they’re not really friends, they’d never talked and never really arranged anything, it just happened sort of naturally. Jack goes home after half an hour, giving up on running, without Number 15 to set the pace. He worries the rest of the day, but can’t afford to do it on the weekend of their first home-game. A part of him woefully wonders if Number 15 knew what team he even belonged to, and if he’d be there, watching.

They do win against Yale, and Jack’s happy and satisfied – even goes out with the team. His season clearly started out brilliantly.

And doesn’t think about Number 15 until Sunday night, wondering if he’ll be there in the morning. 

\-----//-----

“On your left.”

He sighs almost in relief when the blond runs past him – but he’s got a hoodie pulled up, and not his usual 15 jersey. He doesn’t look back at Jack or smiles, or exchange glances for the entirety of their run. Jack doesn’t think too much of it, just picks up his pace, as per usual, and allows things to fall into their established routine. It’s a relief. The ‘pulled-up hoodie thing’ lasts until the end of the week, and maybe he’s a little too distracted with his own life, creating new strategies and analyzing new plays to give it much thought.  
On the next Friday morning, he’s chirped again and sees the familiar 15 plastered on the back of a runner, and everything seems alright, until the guy turns back to look at him, and Jack almost ungraciously trips over his own feet. 

He doesn’t know _what_ Number 15 has been on about, but now he realizes why he had his head down and hoodie pulled up until now. Clearly, the bruise was receding by then, but it had been ugly enough to paint blue-and-green down the boy’s left eye and septum. If he wasn’t a rugby player (which Jack was sure as hell he wasn’t, because for someone his size, he didn’t look particularly strong), someone had punched the lights out of him. The idea somehow annoyed Jack – Number 15 was too small of a guy to pack a punch, in his mind at least.  
(He tried to ignore the fact that Shitty would’ve given him shit for that line of thinking.)

He frowns – Number 15 shakes his head sorrowfully, and they go on the rest of their run. Usually the silence between them isn’t this oppressive, it’s enticing – and as they go on today, Jack realizes how little he knows of him. He realizes he’s made a friend, because he’s worried out of his skull, but doesn’t know his friend’s name. It’s a two-hour run that day, and for once, Number 15 doesn’t dart away from Jack once they get back to the quad. 

They sit together under the shade of a tree in front of the Haus, Jack staring curiously and frowning at the blond boy, and the boy staring back at him, finally going for a sheepish smile. He takes off his ear buds and offers one small hand to the captain. 

“Eric.” Jack reaches out and holds it with a delayed shake. 

“Jack.” And the boy nods. 

“Zimmerman, ‘aite?” He learns two things then, other than the kid’s name – first, this boy either knew his name all along or, unlike him, had the guts to look up his morning-run companion. And second, he’s irrevocably southern. It was delightful, honestly, he doesn’t remember ever talking to someone who sounded so fresh-off-the-farm like that – and a lot of things fell into place then. 

“Yeah, Zimmerman, you know—?“

“Hockey? Some, not really my thing.” He is open, and his voice matches his whole being, light and sunny, but with a strained hint, and Jack feels it like a punch to the gut. Not an entirely bad punch to the gut. He didn’t say he _hated_ Hockey (earning himself points), but also clearly knew his name. Was his father that famous even down south, or what? Put that in a mental note to check it later, he decides. Jack nods towards him, “What happened?” 

Maybe they should talk actual-getting-to-know-you things, but he can’t stop himself. By the face Eric (not Number 15 anymore) makes, he’s not happy about it either, even if he shrugs. 

“Got tackled—not pretty.” His accent is so strong Jack almost snorts, but keeps to himself and then allows the words to sink in. The pause is pregnant and long as he sits there, taking in what the blond boy just said. 

“…you play rugby?” As the words leave his mouth, Jack kicks himself mentally, because how many times hadn’t he have to back up Parse for his height, and people doubting he could actually play Hockey? Too small, too short, fragile and adjectives like that – he knew that kind of thing was a blow to any sportsman’s self-esteem. But Eric, and at that Jack stares a bit in awe, just throws his head up and laughs. 

“Goodness no, I’d be dead and gone by now—that’s so sweet of you, honey.” And that was probably the most southern-strung-like phrase Jack’s ever heard uttered. Surprisingly, being called honey sounded not condescending somehow, just endearing.

“Oh no,” Number 15—Eric, continues: “Football.” And waves at the number on his back. “I know I don’t look like much, but there’s a lot things a vertically-challenged player can do… unless he gets tackled.” 

“I know shit about football.” Jack blurts – meaning he knows the basics, not a real die-hard fan.

“Only that the ball is egg-shaped?” Eric chirps him back, and he blinks a bit amazed at the quickness of that response. A dear tradition among sportsmen, talking-smack was a regular occurrence, and clearly they were not past the point of not doing so (or above it).

“And that the goal isn’t really a goal.” Jack chirps in return. Eric fakes an offended gasp at him and shakes his head. Eric slowly stands up and stretches, almost cat-like, and Jack tries not to stare at the tanned skin that showed a bit more wherever he did it. 

“I should get going.” He says with a meek voice and looks back at Jack. “ ‘bout time we got some talkin’.” His accent is so strong Jack can’t help the smile that creeps back, offering one hand from where he’s sitting still under the tree. 

“Guess so, eh?” At that, Eric politely stifles a laugh, and it takes a moment to down on him that he, too, had an accent. They were bound to be two foreigners there, but somehow, it felt comforting to know that. Eric leaves in his usual ‘my cue to leave’ pace, and Jack may have stared at his ass for a moment, before going back into the Haus, only to be received with a quick, “Who was that and why don’t I know him”, from Holster, who was now shooting him interested looks.

Jack motions as he closed the door behind his back. “Football kid—we run together in the mornings?” It’s a bit hard to explain, and it sounds kind of stupid when he hears himself say it out loud. How can you just tell people ‘we chirp each other by trying to outrun one another’? You don’t, really. 

But now Jack knows he’s Eric, number 15 in Samwell’s football team. 

“Earth to Jack.” Holster snapped fingers fingers in front of his nose, bringing Jack back from his thoughts. “Football kid? That size? He’s like what, a mascot?” And Jack shrugs, slightly ashamed of the fact he doesn’t know at all. 

“Don’t know, he got tackled.” As if that was actual information on what Eric did – and Jack cringed internally at himself. If someone asked ‘what he does’ in a Hockey team, and the response was something around ‘he got checked’, he’d probably roll his eyes so hard they’d pop out his face. 

“He looks familiar.” Holster says nonchalantly, as if trying to figure out where he’s seen the kid before, and Jack watches him walk away, pensive. The Captain takes up on going upstairs to get his shower going, and move on with his morning – most definitely not thinking about Eric, the boy named Fifteen and his short red shorts. 

Jack mostly thinks that his mornings now at least have a name: Eric.

(He doesn’t listen to Holster’s yell downstairs while in the shower – and doesn’t know yet that’ll come back to bite him in the ass.)


	2. A Rink Named Faber

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack's POV #2.  
> Things are weird, people find out things they're not supposed to - and who, **who** in the hell is Eric Bittle?

**A Rink Named Faber (or) Bag Full Of Thoughts**

They play against Providence that same Friday night – and win.

They almost don’t, and Jack’s nerves are killing him the whole time, but the thing is: his head was elsewhere. 

It was a home game and, once he slid into the rink, seeing a familiar blond head in the crowd wearing Samwell’s colours made him want to excel even more. Was he competing with a Football player that was half his size? Was it just because he _needed_ to do better than anyone who challenged him, or just because he needed to be the best by any means? What Jack surely needs is to focus and let that go.

He doesn’t.

But he wasn’t nervous because of Eric’s presence. Of course not. He just really wanted to show his little competitive companion what he could do, when running wasn't actually involved. 

The last score was his, a hat trick with a perfect assist from Shitty. It was beautiful, if you asked him, and it was the game-winner too, which granted Jack a group hug so strong he thought they were trying to put him out of the ice. He looked up to see if Eric had seen that, as if to look smugly at him in a ‘you may run faster than me, but can you do this with a puck, eh?’ fashion, but the short boy had pretty much vanished among the cheering crowd. Jack tuned back to his own world, his team and, now, his victory.  
They make 4-3 on Providence and life is good. 

It’s on the walk back to the lockers that he’s surprised by Eric, standing near the exit– well, not exactly by Eric himself, but by the fact he’s sided with a black-haired guy, as tall as Holster, holding his arm as if he's forcing the blond to be there. “What the fuck brah—“ Shitty starts, but Jack wavers him off (yeah, that guy is Football and probably as obnoxious as any LAX bros, so Jack doesn’t pay him any mind). It’s probably the first time in almost two months that he sees his new friend (if he gets to have that title?) wearing something other than training clothes, and he’s gotta give, even skinny jeans work those long legs. He’s wearing a frat hoodie, no Number 15 this time, but an EB embroidered on the chest with a big ALPHA NU PHI. Jack almost scoffs at the whole fraternity deal, but Eric simply waves at him as happily as possible in a congratulatory smile.  
He lets it go and shyly waves back.

He can't really see the brunette's face, though he's probably just another Football guy, but what he does see is the man grabbing Eric’s arm and hauling him away before Jack can even think of getting there. 

(Reason number A Million as to why he doesn’t like Football people: they’re terribly entitled.)

Up to that point, the only person Jack wanted validation from had been his father; but as he closes his eyes under the shower later on, there is something about this complete stranger’s presence in his game that makes him actually want to know what he has to say about it. As if he hadn’t heard it from his family, friends, reporters, magazines, TV shows, and so on. (Sure, he'd gotten a lot of grief too, but that was beyond the point.) 

“So.” Shitty simply walks in on the cubicle and makes Jack blink, then stare back in dismay. It's not like he isn’t used to it. Like a very invasive dog, Shitty should be ignored, so Jack proceeds to try and finish his shower, paying him no mind. “A frat sweetheart just waved at you, and you waved back," he says. Jack frowns and raises one eyebrow, because he isn’t so sure ‘sweetheart’ is a word used to describe boys, especially frat boys (he still has to wrap his mind around that, Eric doesn’t look like he _belongs_ in one, the thought of actually stereotyping though makes him cringe internally, Shitty’s Social-Justice-Fairy-Godmother presence reminded him of that). 

“Hm, no.” He shrugs. “Uh, I mean,” And turns off the water knowing he’s blabbering by now, because how the hell do you explain the odd friendship that was born from struggling in sweaty training clothes at inhuman hours? “Yes, he waved, but I didn’t know he was an Alpha?” Shitty nods almost solemnly, as if the thought pains him as well. “We train in the mornings.” It’s a terrible explanation, but Shitty seems to accept it, a moment after long consideration. 

“Sounds like a good story, one that I need to hear at full attention,” And he slides away as Jack turns off the water, rolling his eyes. He was tired and didn’t feel like celebrating, even if they had won. He didn’t feel like it was a good win either, but more of an obligation one. Nothing but his duty as a Captain to lead his team to victory.  
His father calls to congratulate him some time later.

Jack doesn’t feel like partying but of course he isn’t going to stop his team from celebrating. Now _where_ did the keg come up from, and the red solo cups, and pretty much everything else – Rans  & Holtz should make a professional living out of celebratory parties. Jack was pretty sure those were remnants from last weekend, and he honestly had no idea that not every single drop of alcohol had been consumed then.

By the time he manages to hole himself up in his room, there’s music already blaring downstairs, and new people keep arriving. It’s a full on party and he knows better than to inflict his not-so-entertaining presence downstairs, despite the victory. Nothing like a nice documentary, or anything else on Netflix to keep him busy, and get some early sleep. And that’s when his phone buzzes over the desk.

 **(Unknown Number)**  
That was impressive, congratulations!  
Now just gotta make it to the playoffs, 30 games to go. ;P 

Jack blinks – this was an unknown number, and a stranger had just texted him a congratulatory message on a game he didn’t even consider that great. It was weird, to say the very least. How do you go on by actually acknowledging the fact it was a really nice text on its own way, but a really nice text from who? It could be a prank from Shitty or someone else using a friend’s phone, but it really didn’t sound likely, they were too busy partying out there to be bothering him. 

**J. Z.**  
It wasn’t impressive at all but thank… you?

He can almost hear the laughter from the other side.

 **(Unknown Number)**  
Don’t be hard on yourself, it was pretty great. Party tonight? 

Jack stares at his phone a bit dumbfounded. Who was this and what did they want? How much did they know him? He had no friends like that, and the ones he did didn’t text him most times. He felt the beginning of a headache. 

**J. Z.**  
I don’t know who you are.

Okay, maybe it sounded a bit too stiff. 

**(Unknown Number)**  
It’s a secret.  <3 

**(Unknown Number)**  
JK, let’s see if you can guess. :D 

Now he was equally confused and annoyed – however curious. Jack doesn’t reply at all, in the hopes stranger will leave him alone. It could’ve been a mistake but, 30 games to go? If he knew that, it probably wasn’t. He takes up on an old spy series and stays up for a couple more hours – halfway through it, stranger sends another text.

 **(Unknown Number)**  
Goodnight, Jack. :3

And it’s weird, it’s honestly weird, he doesn’t reply at all. But it’s somehow endearing, if slightly creepy. The party goes up to four – and Jack has no idea as to _why_ , because it wasn’t even that good of a game. Maybe the team just needed to blow off some steam. He falls asleep after the fifth episode, thinking nothing of Eric's presence on his game. 

\---//---

He wakes up at six thirty – roughly five hours of broken sleep, but he feels alright, if still a little wired. Saturdays and Sundays are not jogging days, and after the victory from last night, Saturday isn’t practice day, so he decides to go to the gym, work out that tension. No new messages from Stranger by then (what’s with him and unknown people?), and the Haus is still fast asleep. Their street is radio silent. 

He picks up his gear bag and decides to get some coffee on the way – take the scenic view to the gym and all that - relaxing _just a bit_ won’t hurt, right? Faber is halfway there, if he feels like actually doing some practice, despite the others, and no one’s using the rink. 

Jack finishes working out at around eight-something but still doesn’t feel entirely satisfied, so Faber is his next stop. 

When he walks through the doors, the first thing he thinks is to immediately turn on his heels. There is a song blaring through the speakers in the arena, which he doesn’t recognize at all, but it reminds him of something, he knows it’s a female singer and the genre is pop (he may have heard it at the party before?). But curiosity wins over and he walks near the green walls to get to the rink, thinking to himself. Maybe it’s a rec team or the peewee training?  
It turns out to be neither. 

As his life is full of surprises, it’s a lone figure skater. 

Jack can’t come close enough to see who is it without revealing himself, so he scoots as close as possible, staying shadowed by the corners. Figure skating, as it turns out, it’s not something he’s ever paid any mind before, but to be honest, since he was a child and his father still played for the Penguins, he had never cared about other sports much.  
Still, it's beautiful. 

The guy-- he assumes it’s a guy at least, is wearing skin-tight black clothing, which Jack assumes is the norm, a blue beanie and some thick big glasses going on, so Jack has no idea what his hair or eyes are like. To every beat of the song, he’s got a move. Like Holster would say, he _has the moves_. Like his body is made of rubber, or something like that. He sits behind the player’s box, watching the figure skater through the glass, and whenever he turns, Jack needs to make sure he’s not seen. The last thing he wants is to interrupt someone else’s practice. 

He’s never _really_ looked at figure skaters and what it took before; he just knew his mother liked it well enough to watch the Olympics every year and have an opinion about it. 

Now, apparently he was developing one too, because it took some damn powerful legs and flexible body to do that, not to mention being amazingly conscious of your body, so that every move could match the rhythm. It’s not like he had effectively disregarded other sports, he had just always been driven to Hockey, like a moth to fire. He knew the basics about every other sport out there, but who sees figure skating as a sport? 

Clearly, he couldn't have been more wrong. 

It's a Saturday morning and his arms hurt slightly from weight-lifting, but he can’t help being mesmerized by the skater on the ice.  
Those are some long, muscular legs (it reminds him of Eric and his bright short shorts), and he can see the guy isn’t really tall at all, but he’s flexible, which had probably to do with all the dancing. His arms were strong enough too, for someone lithe, and it was obvious there was no bench-pressing involved there, but he could probably hold up those equally lithe girls in their flimsy bedazzled costumes, like Jack could remember from the Olympics. 

He doesn’t know for how long he stays there, but it’s long enough that something like two or three more songs mend into one another. The guy on ice doesn’t stay still for long, so Jack can't really see what he’s like, but he keeps seating on the exact same shadowed spot behind the walls, watching intently. It’s impressive and it's beautiful. Hockey, Jack thinks, is not only about technique, but also about what you can do in the spur of the moment, about decisions and overpowering the other team. Figure skating, as he could see, isn't about that at all. It required a lot of planning and studying, and controlling one’s own body perfectly – he couldn’t see himself doing the spins and bending like that at all, but he felt like he could take some of that to his games. 

And then the last song fades – before the skater turns to the rink's exit, Jack slides down to the floor. Why on earth is he hiding? He has no idea. But he does feel like what he’d just witnessed was terribly intimate, just like he wouldn’t want someone watching his early-morning practices, so it was for the best if the guy didn’t see him. He can hear the clattering of the skates being removed and looks up, to see if he can still find out the identity of the mysterious figure skater as he leaves. Skates clatter to the floor as they’re dropped.

“Jack Zimmerman?” 

Oh well. That could’ve gone a hell of a lot better, but he’s sitting on the floor behind the player benches, and standing in the aisle that leads to the exit, holding his white skates, in form-fitting black clothing with thick wayfarer glasses, is his early-morning running companion, with his doe-like eyes so wide and face so pale, Jack could probably count thin freckles on his sun-tanned nose and cheeks. He stares back up. 

“Eric?” He asks back, slightly confused, and pulls himself up forcefully, a knot slowly forming on his throat. “Slightly” being a darling euphemism to actual and utter confusion, or course. Number 15 looks back at him with utter horror and his eyes grow wide enough that Jack thinks they could probably jump off his face. And when the short boy steps back, bending down to pick up his skates, Jack notices his trembling hands, and doesn’t understand.

He’s seriously not getting it. 

“Don’t,” Eric starts, and his voice is shaky, but also dry, almost a hiss, “tell anyone.” Jack almost winces, because he knows that tone and that’s _anger_. Directed at him. As if he’s done something wrong. Maybe he shouldn’t have stayed to watch, alright, but technically, the doors were open, he had done nothing wrong. Immediately, Eric steps towards him, opens his mouth, gaps like a fish, and retreats. “Please.” Jack stares back, because the boy in front of him is begging, if anything, his shoulders sag and his voice lowers to almost a whisper. He’s got his hands balled into fists and looks like he’s been caught doing something utterly terrible, and for a whole moment, the Hockey Captain doesn’t get it, but he nods anyway. 

“I won’t.” He says, still unsure of _why_. And then it dawns on him like he was just struck by lightning. 

Eric looks, standing very still and shaky, like he doesn’t know where to run to or what to do next, not knowing if Jack can be trusted. Eric’s on the Football team – Samwell probably doesn’t have a figure skating team, maybe just a rec one, but he can’t recall it right away. Eric’s on a scholarship, probably, he's on a fraternity, and Jack is two hundred percent sure he’s missing so many things here, because the boy looks so scared and dismayed, he looks so fragile. He looks like someone who needs a lot of protection and Jack’s seen that look on himself years ago – before almost killing himself, right after rehab. He’s seen it on his own eyes, and the way his shoulders fall. 

“I won’t tell anyone.” He says again, after a long moment of tension between them. “I promise, Eric.” Some form of relief washes over the blond boy, and he bows his head just slightly in lieu of thanking, still not moving from where he stood. 

“Bittle.” He says, his voice a lot less tight, and offers a small smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and Jack realizes he smiled a lot more during their morning jog. “Eric Richard Bittle.” And the boy offers his hand – it takes Jack a moment to reach out, close the distance between them and shake it back. “I guess...we should start over?” He asks, eyebrows raised and shoulders still slumped. 

“Jack Zimmerman, but I guess you know that already, eh?” He feels stiff even if there’s a hint of amusement in his voice (Trying to ease things a bit? He’s terrible at that, who let him hold the wheel?), but looking into Eric’s eyes, he finds so much warmth in them, despite the whole you-caught-me-doing-something-I’m-ashamed-of thing. 

“Yeah, I know that.” And Eric pulls his hand away after they both realize it’s been an awfully long handshake. “My friends call me Dick.” There’s something about the way he says the nickname that makes Jack swallow dryly. “I mean, if you want to, of course, Eric’s good too—“

“Bittle.” The blond boy blinks, and tilts his head just slightly. “Don’t get me wrong,” Jack says, frowning. “But I don’t think you’re a dick.” And he immediately sees the change in Eric’s face as he throws his head back and laughs. It’s almost melodic, Jack realizes, it’s a sound that suits him and he should laugh more often. It doesn’t seem all that hard to prompt it anyway. 

“Alright then,” Bittle says, the smile still lingering on his face. “I call you Jack or Zimmerman ‘nyway?” Jack likes the lingering accent – clearly it’s a lot more contrived when he’s putting up effort to water it down, but it’s still there, as southern as they come. 

“Yeah.” He pauses. “I mean,” and almost rolls his eyes at himself. “Jack’s good, yeah.” Bittle keeps smiling, as if he’s been given a gift or something, and it’s adorable. 

“Okay,” He nods, looking less pale and terrified now, and it almost hurts because he’s _trusting_ him. That’s a vow of trust if he ever saw any. He doesn’t know Bittle’s story, where in the south he comes from exactly, and what he’s doing in Samwell, but he knows that he’s holding onto Jack’s word to not hurt him, to not fuck up his life, in the best words he can think. For years, Jack hasn’t trusted himself whatsoever, not ever since the overdose, not ever since he almost ruined his shot at the pros, the draft and all. And now, an almost complete stranger is relying on him, and he has absolutely no reason to. 

“Okay.” Jack nods back, and swallows what seems to be a cotton ball, as Bittle turns away.

“I should,” he waves towards the door. “Get going.”

Just like the previous morning, now they speak at the same time, and then Bittle laughs again, like he’s just delighted by Jack’s presence and words. He’s still laughing when he holds his skates tightly, and walks to the doors, leaving Jack behind to stare at his lithe back. Jack nods and so does Eric, making his way up the aisle. 

“Tuesday and Saturday mornings,” Jack blurts, when Bittle is almost gone, making him halt where he stands and look back. “I mean.” He clears his throat. “When the rink is free in the mornings, we don’t have practice, you can—“ Bittle’s face lights up, and there is a soft, rosy blush over his cheeks when he understands what Jack’s saying. “I can stay at the door, if you need me to.” Why? Why is he offering this guy he doesn’t even know free pass to the rink, and even weirder, why is he offering to stand guard for him? 

One, Jack will realize it later when he’s showering back in the Haus, it’s because Eric Bittle makes him feel less lonely in his Hockey-driven world, for some ungodly reason. 

Bittle is still standing by the door and Jack’s right where he’d been sitting before when the boy speaks up: “See you Monday morning, yea?” He drawls out sweetly, and Jack nods, feeling his mouth dry. “Thank you so much, Jack.” And Jack watches him leave.

He sits exactly where he is for another half an hour, still trying to understand what just happened.

Two, when Eric Richard Bittle says his name, he’s a goner. And doesn’t even know it yet.

\---//---

When he’s back at the Haus, it’s ten past nine, and everyone’s still asleep, so he slips past the sleeping bodies around. Some people wake up just to mutter a good morning and go back to where they decided to lay the night before. 

It’s almost noon when someone knocks on his door, and instead of Shitty or Johnson, Jack finds Holster, with a bedhead and wearing his shirt backwards. He does try to address it, but Holster simply ushers him back inside his room.

“That Alpha guy,” He starts, and Jack frowns. 

“Holts—are you okay?” Holster nods firmly, intent on saying whatever it is. 

“The one t’was with you yesterday morning, and that waved after the game.” Jack looks puzzled at Holster but let's him finish anyway: “His name’s Bittle, right? Eric Bittle.” Jack’s mouth goes dry.

“How do you know that?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First things first, Jack is a big dork that thinks Bitty is so mysterious and cool and it's just. Jack, darling. If only you knew.  
> I know nothing is explained so far BUT BEAR WITH ME. REMEMBER THE BURN IS SLOW. Just don't wanna cram everything like I'm in a hurry, are y'all?  
> But look, a wild Holster! And Shitty! And Mysterious Teammate who's sort of important. Keep in mind.  
> Thanks everyone who's left kudos, bookmarked and commented so far, I hope I keep up to expectations!  
> I know, there was no Football so far but there'll be, don't worry.  
> Stay strong here with me and this thing I'm doing, I really live on y'all's validation.


	3. A Team Named Dragons

**A Team Named Dragons (or) Blow Us All Away**

Eric is just walking on the outskirts of the field when the shouting comes.

“WATCH OUT!”

He could start by thinking ‘This is the main reason why I hate Football guys’ but to be honest, Eric Bittle just hated everything about Football, not just the guys, and there wasn’t a single thing about it that didn’t grind oh his gears daily – which was rich coming from a former Captain. He doesn’t need to duck though, he’s had things hurled at his head in higher speeds before, so it’s easy to catch the ball before they both tragically collide. 

It doesn't mean people should start throwing objects in his general direction outside a match. 

“My my, that’s sexy.” The offender says, and Eric rolls his eyes, slightly amused at his Captain's smooth, stupid brittish accent (not posh, absolutely not posh at all), as he gets closer. Amir is easily three times his size (on Eric's very own, very biased opinion), and his shoulders were made to carry kegs - plural, Eric’s seen it before. He has a permanent five-o-clock shadow in the same chocolate shade as his hair, and it peppers his ridiculously good looking face. Eric hates him – and hates it even more when he gets closer, with those infuriating hazel eyes, and a smile that lights them up like a Christmas tree. He honestly hates how cute and lovely his Captain is, and how much he seems to care for him. 

Eric couldn’t hate Amir if he tried. (He hates him in the same way he hates Jack Zimmermann.)

Bittle throws the ball back at him in dismay but smiles shyly back. “Where you been, Big Man?” And Eric realizes for a moment he’s still wearing the beanie and glasses. He’s always so careful to put all of his “disguise” back in his duffel bag that he can’t believe it for a moment. At least the skating clothes were gone and he was back in jeans and hoodie, his usual ensemble. Blame Jack Zimmerman for that. Eric swallows quickly, tense, and shakes his head. “Get some trainin’ done, ‘Mir, without y’all ruffling my feathers.” 

Which is not entirely a lie, he thinks. Amir nods almost solemnly and simply grabs the beanie from his head, analysing it before putting it on himself. Eric laughs. It’s so small on him it looks like a goddamn kippah.

“Ye make us sound like we’re a bunch ‘o goons, mate.” Eric fakes an offended gasp (‘I would _never_!’) and the Captain nudges his shoulder. “C’mon.” He says, grabbing his teammate's arm out of impulse, then immediately letting it go like he’s been shocked, as Eric looks at him impatiently. **Rule Number Six:** _Do not ever manhandle me._ Stablishing boundaries between him and his team helped keeping things sane to an extent, and so far, Samwell had been a lot easier on his nerves than his team back at home. Amir looks apologetic and Eric shakes his head.

“Yeah, let’s go.” And they walk together to where most of the guys are running. The silence between them is palpable, but so it is with everyone else on the team. Eric looks forward to the day he won’t feel like an outsider. It’s been like that ever since he got in, like everyone’s afraid of breaking him in half, or that if something they’ll say is going to make him bend and break. Eric can feel the knot in his throat and the death grip he’s got on his bag. “ ‘m gonna go get changed.” He warns the others before taking his leave, and Amir reaches out to grab his shirt.

“Okay, jus’ –“ Amir starts and Eric looks up, meeting staggering bright eyes, and the Captain sighs. “—you friends with Zimmerman? That,” and he raises his hand when Eric opens his mouth to respond, somehwat shell-shocked and confused. “Look,” Amir continues, looking between exasperated and sorry, so Eric decides he’s got good intentions. He still doesn’t like it, but he appreciates the gesture nonetheless. However, to his knowledge, they all do, until something bad happens. “Tha’s not good for you, okay? ‘s not the same thing, you two are not like—“ He tries to articulate and Eric squints at him, feeling an angry heat crawl up his neck and tinge the tip of his ears bright red. Amir is roughly three times his size, but Eric will deck him if he says anything wrong right now. By the unsure look in his eyes, he can tell Amir is backing down. The brit boy shakes his head, hands up: “Eric,” they never ever use his first name, so he simply folds assertive arms over his chest, waiting for the other shoe to drop. “Don’t go down that road, this isn’t Madison or Atlanta, you gun’ be alright.” 

It hurts to hear it, even if he thought it wouldn’t – and right after the layers of pain, there’s a crashing wave of anger.

He does his best not to let it show through. and swallows all the anger, all the hurt. “ ‘m fine, bro, ok?”, Eric says, in his best impersonation of the people he’s grown up with, and the word tastes bitter on his mouth. “Everything’s fine.” Amir shoots back a knowing look that says he isn’t buying that shit, and Eric steps further back. “I’m better, I’m ready for tonight’s game.” He’s holding up as much as he can – he knows this isn’t himself, he can’t stop playing parts even when he's so far away from home, even when he technically doesn’t need to, but he can’t stop. He can’t stop feeling the knife-glare over behind his back, and the titanic weight like he’s the most vertically challenged Atlas to ever hold the world onto his shoulders (‘Pops isn’t here’ is a recurring thought). 

“I can do this, Amir.” The sad eyes on his captain's face make him wonder if he’s actually working out his best poker face, or if they're both playing a game of charade, pushing to see who backs down first. “I can do this.” Eric repeats, trying to sound a lot stronger than he feels, trying to look a lot bigger than he is, with squared-up shoulders and eyes set to hold up Amir’s gaze. 

“By the way,” Eric groans as he stops on his way to the lockers, parting from the captain. “I didn’t know he was Zimmerman for some time, it was sort of—“ He gestures wildly, as if all the words in _running companion three times a week_ could fit into his nervous silence. “—an accident, ok?” Amir nods in response, but Eric knows he’s not buying it. Whatever. He doesn’t owe anyone anything here. 

“Just be ready for the game tonight, mate.”

Later on, he stares at the mirror and breathes deeply. “I need to do this.” 

He’s not so sure he can.

\---//---  
It turns out he’s not ready, even if they do win.

Either because he’s been thinking too much about starting anew or because Jack Zimmerman became an unexpected constant in his life (when they weren’t even supposed to meet), which was terrifying it itself. He had to focus on Football and nothing else, it was the reason he woke up at 4:30 every week day, and the reason why he was here - because he needed to get back on his feet. 

Because he had something to prove. 

He’s not ready for their first official season game that’s not a friendly match, he’s not ready for the crowd and Eric's definitely not ready to face Albany’s players. They’re _all_ above six feet two and Bittle knows, _he knows_ he shouldn’t be freaking out. “You’ve done this a thousand times,” he mutters to himself and stands his ground. “At least they’re not from the south.” he thinks aloud, and rubs his hands nervously before the game starts. Everyone knows that down south Football is The Real Deal. At least up here people cared more about a lot of other sports. But by any means, it still felt like every pair of eyes in Campus and vicinity were oh him.

Number 15. 

It’s not even remotely violent as games were back home – at some point, Eric realizes he’s not as terrified, because these people were much more civilized. So far, at least. Apparently, they only needed a one-back, so Eric could only stare at Amir’s wide shoulder blades – more than once, the quarterback Captain threw him glances in his direction, the corners of his mouth curling up in a smirk. 

Eric manages to not get physically blocked at any moment, but has to thank his team for it. Also, no panic attacks ensue, which is great as well, and makes him feel like this is a victory, however small.

He runs for a Touchdown, zipping past the other team’s defense like they’re walls and scores the game's winner.

Sure, Eric might not have been harmed by the opposing team, but his own seemed deadly set on doing so, as he simply got picked from the ground and suffocated in too many male arms (not complaining entirely, nope, if he’s gonna die, then this might as well be the _only_ way to go). They rub his head and hug him, and he almost throws up with nervousness, but it’s worth it just to see it on the screen above their heads as the game ends. 

He’s happy. 

Almost giddy, really, making his way to the locker room sided by his teammates, he could be skipping steps with joy. Thompson and Mulligan slap his back so hard he almost falls over their manager. It’s not his first victory for Samwell (considering the season had started a month ago), but the first _official_ one, and Eric could shed tears of joy. He sure hoped everyone else back at home was watching and just eating their hearts out, and that's a good thought to shower to. The team is raucous around him, but they’re like that pretty much all the time. He’s learned that sports teams are usually wild and obnoxious and loud. The Dragons are lovely though, in their own weird bro-ish way. But all of them are, until things turn south – Eric needs to remind himself that at least three times a day.

Just in case.

Eric comes back from the shower to his phone buzzing madly inside the locker – most of the notifications are from his twitter, some part of it are from his old teammates and High School friends, and one-- one is something else entirely.

 **J.Z.**  
That was impressive. Congratulations, Bittle.

He stares at his phone and blinks, dumbfounded. As far as he knew, Jack didn’t even know his number and Eric had fun last night texting him and imagining his confusion: big blue, basset-hound-like eyes staring befuddled at the touch screen. How on earth had Jack found out or figured it out, Eric had no idea, but it was still fun, it was still nice. Endearing, even. Jack’s stiff words and demeanour make him smile stupidly at the screen, and run quick fingers over it. 

**E.B.**  
Thanks Jack! :3

 **E.B.**  
How’s our score?

It’s like he’s challenging Jack, and maybe he is. Maybe he’s just having a bit of mindless fun for a change. And Jack was so easy to pick on – bless his heart, that boy was precious in his eyes and they had barely ever talked. Clearly, everything he was worried about was Hockey, he looked like he loved it and breathed it, and on ice he became someone else, or at least someone that Eric hadn’t met. Yet. After a minute of no response, he starts worrying if he’d somehow offended him - they weren’t really friends after all.   
Deciding for the best course of action, he abandons his buzzing phone for a moment and when he comes back, there’s a new message waiting for him (stop obsessing Eric, get it together!). 

**J.Z.**  
1 – 1

 **J.Z.**  
But you got a Touchdown, so it’s probably 1 – 2.

(Eric laughs.)

 **J.Z.**  
You’re laughing, aren’t you?

 **E.B.**  
Yes. (≧◡≦) Thought you didn’t know anything Football? 

**E.B.**  
Not all of us can score hat tricks so maybe 2 – 2?

 **J.Z.**  
Sounds good to me.

 **J.Z.**  
I know some things Football. 

Eric smiles stupidly at his phone before tucking it away. This whole conversation was silly and he isn’t so sure as to _why_ he’s doing it. Maybe he just really liked the way Jack Zimmerman had been someone in his mind, and in real life he just… He was a completely different person. That kept unfolding in new, surprising ways.   
Eric moves on to get dressed and doesn’t know what else to keep texting Jack about, but he _wants to_. He wants more, they have so much in common and it doesn’t feel as lonely or as terrifying to be near someone else like him. But he needs to keep himself grounded – Amir isn’t wrong, they’re not the same. Maybe he shouldn’t befriend Jack at all. 

**E.B.**  
You watched the game? =O

But Eric is fucking weak for cute boys with bright eyes, and he kicks himself mentally for not being able to stop.His teammates are teasing him for keeping a hand glued to the phone even while they get dressed, and he ignores them with a soft smile, barking back one or two snarky comments of his own, laughing absent-mindedly. 

It takes Jack exact 47 seconds to reply.

But he’s not counting. 

**J.Z.**  
On TV. 

**J.Z.**  
ESPN likes you a lot.

And suddenly, the magic’s gone. Bittle drops his phone like it’s burning, and stares angrily at it, stomach churning. It’s not rational, he knows. His phone clatters against the tiles and disappears under a bench, Eric draws a deep breath, but before he can try to retrieve it, another hand gets it for him – one red-brown tanned hand, attached to a strong arm that leads to equally broad shoulders.

(Which just feeds his perpetual pet-peeve of being around athletes all the time, really - they all had ridiculously large shoulders and Eric’s body had decided to remain at around age fourteen.) 

Holding the towel to his waist with the hand that isn’t too busy with Eric’s phone, the owner of bright hazel eyes simply lifted his eyebrows at him: “This yours, Bittle?” Ah, their manager, somehow a saint among demons. Eric looks intently back at the man, and then down to the phone in his hand, squinting at it. “Get dressed, you got a party to attend,” the manager says. It’s not a stern tone, but more like – ’stop thinking shit and let’s get going’. 

“Yeah sure—“ Bittle reaches out for his phone, but Eduardo pockets it. He almost hisses at the manager. 

“Not tonight no, you’re having fun tonight, whatever’s going on that crazy head of yours can wait ‘till tomorrow.”

Eric feels like protesting that he’s not in the mood for partying, but since when has that stopped anyone from dragging him anywhere, right? Eduardo ushers him to go, and he really feels like complaining about having his phone taken, but it’s useless, he knows. He also knows he should relax. He knows he _can_ relax here, and yet he can’t bring himself to it. 

\---//---

There is a soft buzz under his skin from the alcohol he’s been forced to consume, and no one really thinks about looking into the kitchen, not in a house this big, and that’s why he’s just sitting there, TV turned on in the corner. The music is loud enough that he can’t hear his own thoughts, but it doesn’t matter all that much, as he absent-mindedly watches ESPN’s highlights of every sport they’ve got on toll. (He knows he’ll show up at some point, and maybe that’s why he’s watching, a knot in his throat from the prospect). 

Going up to his room would imply giving Eduardo permission to crash the door open and drag him down, but being downstairs kept himself in sight just enough so that people actually left him alone. It’s not that Eric didn’t like to be social, he really liked parties. It was just that dealing with his new reality was sometimes a lot more than he could handle. 

So sitting by the kitchen is the next best option, hoping he could just scrap up something and mindlessly bake – it sounded like the ideal situation. Lost in thought, he doesn’t even pay attention to the door until someone’s stumbling into the room. He’s been busy, lost in thought about what he wants to do with this kitchen – clean it with industrial supply products, get his baking supplies from home, decorate it nicely, fix the drawers... So much, there’s so much. And he’s so deep in thinking that it takes Eric about two or three minutes to realize there’s another person there, standing at the threshold, staring at him almost intently. 

Eric almost falls off where he’s been sitting and draws in a sharp breath, he finds himself looking into really green eyes and a surprised, mustached face (he definitely thinks the ‘stache looks great on the guy, not everyone can pull that off). “Oh—dear—” Bittle bites back the endearment terms. It’s not bro-ish, it’s not _manly_ , or an array of other words he knows some people can undermine him for. “—you need anything?” It’s as polite as he can muster without sounding like his mother. 

(It’s a lie.)

“Sick touchdown, brah.” The guy walks up to him, and Bittle fistbumps him with a smirk – that careful put up mask. 

“Thanks man.” Stache-guy nods almost solemnly in return. 

“Shitty, man.” He says, and it takes a moment for Eric to realize he’s introducing himself. He blinks in confusion, tilting his head to the right. What kind of human being calls himself Shitty?

“Uh…Eric?” It’s his confused response.

“Bittle, yeah?” Shitty makes a pointed pause, and Eric doesn’t shrink in his seat as much as he wants to. “Found the farthest Uni from home or what?” There’s humor in his voice, and fair enough, as this guy knows who he is, it’s a question most everyone’s been asking ever since he came to Samwell. Or at least people who cared somehow for College Football were. Eric shrugs and turns back to gaze at the TV for a split second, they’re finally on Football topics and he can _see_ the stills from his game. 

“Ahaha, yeah, get some space from the fam an’ all.” It’s a stupidly forced laughter, and his voice is as carefully put together, false-amused in the same way his expression is – and he’d been looking at Shitty instead of the TV screen he’d have seen his semblance shift immediately. He doesn’t register the fact this dude guy picks up a stool and sits beside him at first. Why would anyone strike up a conversation since he was clearly uninterested? Not that he meant to be rude or anything, he just wasn’t in the mood for talking now. He just wasn’t in the mood for keeping up his endless game of make believe.

“You okay, bro?” Mustache asks, and Eric looks back at this Shitty guy (seriously, what’s with the name?) and blinks. Besides his mom, no one’s asked exactly that, with that exact ‘I’m-actually-asking’ tone and such intent eyes before. No one’s asked him, and he simply nods positively back, but the guy isn’t having it: “You don’t have to be.”   
Who the fuck is this guy and where did he come from and what did he want, because it hits Eric like a truck. He knows Mustache is obviously just drunk, he knows they’ve never seen each other before, they know nothing of one another (well, more or less, considering his last name).

And yet, he can’t stop himself. 

“Yeah I do.” Clearly, he should never be asked things when mildly drunk and upset, watching ESPN on mute, which he _just knows_ is dissecting the game, and more importantly, Bittle himself. He shouldn’t get intense or serious or think about things – he should **never** think about things. That’s a policy he’s adopted years ago, and it helps a lot. His new companion’s hand suddenly reaches for his head and pats it. Eric looks back mildly offended and widely confused. 

“ ‘m not gonna tell anyone, bro.” It’s almost hilarious how such a dude-like statement brings him to the verge of tears.

And then _actual_ tears. 

It’s that delicate balance, never thinking about things, not being asked about those same things and just bottling everything up until it destroyed him from the inside, like one angry, small dynamite bar. It’s the pile of things that’s brought him here, three months into Samwell, two months of actual season, countless Touchdowns and back slaps later. Everything that came before that and this stranger, this guy with his stupid pornstache and bright green eyes and broad shoulders, that is just like every other bro he’s ever met, but still unlike every other bro Eric ever met. And he asks Eric if he’s okay, and means it. 

Eric is not okay.

He has to put a hand over his face and stifle a sob, because once he’s started, he can’t stop. Shitty looks at him with an enigmatic expression – or maybe Eric’s vision is just too blurry. He doesn’t know if it’s pity, shame or worry, but whatever it is, it reminds Bittle that this is everything he shouldn’t be doing, Crying on a kitchen at his Frat’s party after a successful game. 

(He never feels like he’s winning anything anyway.) 

“I need—I’m sorry—I—“ Eric kicks off the stool, gets up to his feet, hand pressed over his mouth, and the new guy reaches out. 

“Dude, it’s totally fine—you’re super fine—like—“ But Eric doesn’t let him speak, going for the door and immediately running into a broad chest, bouncing and crashing butt-first to the floor like he’s just been pushed. “Yo Shits—“ Mr. Brick Wall stopped mid-sentence, as surprised as Eric is to find an obstacle on his way. Eric’s tears don’t cease, but he looks up and frowns, trying to recognize the man, and his black eyes. Another guy he doesn’t know, but vaguely recalls, probably from some other party. “Dude I’m so sorry did I hurt you—“ Brick Wall starts, like he’s suddenly realized that Eric is crying, or that Eric _is Eric Bittle_ , and whichever it is, Bittle doesn’t stay to figure out, squirreling around guy’s legs and bolting upstairs. There is protesting and calling behind his back, but he locks up his room and gives up for the day. (He’s never been more glad to be one of the 3 people in the House that don’t share a room.) 

Bittle cries himself to sleep – to wake up at 5am with a splitting headache and his phone returned safely to his bedside. He has no idea how it got there, but he’s pretty sure Wardo holds keys to every room in the Den. (He’s still unsure if that’s sweet or creepy, but in a house where around twenty guys live in? Absolutely necessary.) There’s about 10 calls missed from home and every possible notification ever, from twitter, to texts, to the NFL app. 

He doesn’t feel like acknowledging any, so grabs his blanket instead and stays in bed for the rest of the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UUUHHHH. Okay so, first things first, bit of a delay because this week was Hell[TM]!  
> So! Now we have FOOTBALLERS-DUDE-GUYS, there'll be more at some point, let us hope I don't write anything barbaric. I'm unsure how I feel about this chapter but whoever is reading, I hope you enjoy Bitty's POV.  
> There's a lot of questions unsolved yeah so like, bear with me, remember this is a _really slow burn_ , I feel like we're driving in circles kinda thing.   
> Also Bitty's POV is an about 0 of story development and just him going on about - probably most of the story relies on Jack, the most distrustful and unreliable narrator ever, o boy.   
> Is Bitty slightly OOC? Maybe but that's sort of the point of the whole thing, _he knows_ he's OOC, not in a Johnson-our-metaphysical-goalie kind of way but, anyway, KEEP READING, YOU'LL UNDERSTAND SOME DAY LET US HOPE.  
>  Okay so, hopefully next one will come anytime sooner! And uh.  
> I thrive on being validated so thanks everyone who's commented and bookmarked and subscribed so far, I hope y'all enjoy reading as much as I'm enjoying writing!


	4. A Coffee Shop Named Annie's

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eric Bittle has one hell of a temper problem.  
> Jack doesn't know how the fuck to deal with.  
> He should walk away.  
> He won't.

**A Coffee Shop Named Annie’s (or) Don't Listen To A Word I Say**

He’s standing outside the Haus, it’s five thirty on a Monday morning and it’s been a while since he felt like that – not terrified exactly, because he’s utterly familiar with terror; not anxious either, because that’s his life on a daily basis, but a horrible mix between expectant and guilty. 

Jack stands there, palms sweating, as he presses his hand into balled-up fists. He knows he’s done something wrong because Eric disappeared for the rest of the weekend – he knows, just _knows_ that technically it makes no sense. All he did was mention ESPN, but Eric never replied to those texts. Plus, they’ve just “really met” less than a week ago, and he shouldn’t be stressing this way, but Jack can’t help himself. He can’t help the fact he was thrown into someone else’s life story by providence. 

As he stands there, wiping sweaty hands on his jeans, he wonders if Eric will actually show up or just shut him down – he can’t blame the blonde for the latter. He’d do about the same years ago. Sometimes, he’s still tempted to do it, even to the ones closest to his heart, out of sheer, irrational fear. He can’t help it. 

He traces patterns on his palms with his thumbs and buries a fingernail in the hockey-calloused skin. 

\---//---  
_He’s sitting in the living room, flipping through the channels, enjoying the silence – it's Saturday night, and everyone is out. Maybe he should be too._

_“Scoot!” Of course that peace wouldn’t last long, but at least it was just Shitty._

_“Someone told me our new southern friend is kicking ass on the field, you watching that?” Jack looks back at him, a bit puzzled, unsure of what his friend is talking about. That's when Shitty reaches out for the controller, stealing it from his hand and punching in NFL’s Network numbe. “Yeah, sure, we could go watch it, but ew.”_

_Jack snorts, only to hear the excited ranting on-screen._

_[And the Samwell Dragons’ new wild card is actually showing what he came here for!]_

_[‘’Well, after dropping off the face of the Earth we should at least expect that, John!”]_

_That’s certainly not what he was waiting to hear. Jack exchanges a look with Shitty and back at the television. He doesn’t know all that much about Football, just the necessary basics, but it **is** impressive to see Eric, at least a solid foot shorter than most of the other players, zipping through the massive bodies like he’s got some sort of force field. Shitty whistles under his breath, and Jack almost feels proud for a kid he’s never met before because even though he doesn't know much, he knows this is impressive. _

_[“It’s good to see that a year’s disappearance actually did well for Bittle Junior!”]_

_[“What’s with Samwell and their recovering athletes, John?”]_

_[“Oh come on, at least he didn’t pull a Lindsay Lohan like a certain hockey boy!”]_

_The cheerful tone of the exchange almost makes the words sound not as bad as they actually are, and because he’s transfixed on watching the game, Jack almost doesn’t register them. Shitty, however, does, and changes the channel so fast that in a blink, the football game melts into a handsome british cook explain how to properly fry scallops. Jack blinks, confused by the sudden change, and looks back at his friend with what was probably a question mark face._

_“Boooooring,” Shitty immediately says, as if that's his sole reason for not wanting Jack to watch the game._

_Jack frowns, letting all he’s heard sink in, working his way through the words and ignoring the ones about himself (or trying to, and sort of failing.) He stares at Shitty, and Shitty stares back with his usual sympathetic expression._

_“Why are you naked now?”_

_“When am I not, my man?”_

\---//---

Clearly, he’s too enthralled by his thoughts, because it takes a hand to his arm to pull him back from them – a small hand, attached to a (not so) skinny arm, attached to a short blond football player. Jack looks down at those doe eyes and blinks, and Eric smiles back. It’s that smile that is somehow adorable, yet deeply disturbing - broad but not quite reaching his eyes (slightly red at the corners - he's either been smoking or crying, and Jack can almost bet which one is more likely). A smile that's all teeth and curled lips, quivering just slightly.

He thinks smiles fit Eric’s face – but not this one. Like he’s trying too hard and cracking halfway.

“On your left.” Eric tugs his left arm before sprinting in front of him like some scared animal, a long legged gazelle. Jack takes about zero point five seconds to follow.  
He’s still about three feet behind Bittle, maybe not entirely on purpose, and keeps watching the Number 15 on the boy's back. Thirty minutes into their routine and Jack realizes Bittle isn’t keeping up his own usual rhythm. This running feels like an unsteady heartbeat – Eric accelerates and falls back constantly, pace ever changing. It’s annoying to follow, but worse yet - it's worrisome, like the boy is trying his best and failing. 

It takes Jack forty five minutes to call off their jog. He does the usual head-and-hand gestures to signal he’s quitting, hoping Eric will follow suit. He gives in and nods, walking alongside Jack in a heavy, pregnant silence. When they get to the Haus’ front Eric motions to leave, and Jack holds the sleeve of his jersey, looking into his watch. It’s barely twenty past six. They stare at each other for a moment, and as Bittle tilts his head questioningly, Jack decides to take a step. 

“You want—“ Waves towards the house. “—to come inside for coffee?” 

He can see the debate behind Eric’s eyes and he lets his sleeve go, because this was a stupid thing to ask. Why did he think this was a good idea? They could just go into the dining hall, but then again, it would only open at seven. He's too worried overthinking to consider Bittle may just take the offer: 

“Yeah, sure.” Jack is the one looking confused now, because - why would he? Eric just smiles another one of those disturbing, unhappy smiles, and Jack nods back gravely. 

He knows most of his team is asleep - no one’s got classes until eight Mondays, he knows… a lot of things, really, and they're all cut short by Eric’s soft groan when they walk inside. Jack looks back questioning. 

“And I thought _my_ house was bad.” As Jack pretends to look offended and Eric just laughs: “I mean messy, not bad, sorry.”

“That’s because you haven’t seen it past a Kegster.” Jack snips back, and Eric snorts ungracefully (but Jack thinks it’s cute anyway). 

“And God help me if I ever have to.” Bittle sneers, and bumps his arm against Jack’s.

It feels like they’re friends. Or, at least, on their way to be. Jack’s not responsible for Eric, for his college scholarship, career or anything, really. Eric is just a freshman he met on a morning run. Yet, after this weekend, he _knows_ they could be friends. He wouldn’t mind having Bittle as his friend, Jack thinks he’d probably like that. There’s something on Eric that reminds him of Kent – and something else that is Bittle’s alone. 

And as they reach the kitchen, Jack realizes his mistake – Eric does too, and starts laughing when he's presented to the laid out mess of solo cups, a mile-long pile of dirty dishes and no coffee machine in sight. “Okay…” Eric says, amused, clapping both hands together and looking up at Zimmerman – who seems mortified, rubbing one hand over his face. 

Badly thought out plan, clearly. “Why don’t you go shower and we can hit Annie?” 

It’s not entirely a bad idea. 

“Yeah, alright.” He _did_ invite Eric for coffee, and obviously it’d be stupid to just have him walk out because something close to a hurricane had hit their kitchen. Maybe many small pot-lit hurricanes? 

(How could he forgot that? Probably because he never pays it much mind.)

“You… wait here?” The hockey captain asks, very eloquently - it seemed a pattern when it came to Eric Bittle. Eric simply nods and picks a chair.

“Alright, go on.” Eric dismisses him, and with firm steps Jack leaves to shower quickly. It was part of his routine, and he didn’t like disrupting it. It felt odd, having someone waiting for him just so they could leave for breakfast – he should probably let Shitty know at some point he wasn’t joining them in the dining hall. The whole situation was odd, but not bad. Definitely not bad. Almost like he was falling into some sense of Normal Life that didn’t rely solely on his Hockey career. 

And that's when Jack starts to worry, as he steps under the water spray of his shower, that he's somehow losing his focus. God forbid Jack Zimmerman's thought ever strayed from hockey. But deep inside, he knew he wasn’t – right? He navigated through his classes with diligence and focused more on his future career than anything. They’d just won a game that same past Friday, so obviously, having someone who wasn’t Hockey-related in his life couldn’t do much harm.

Right?

By the time he steps out of the shower, he notices two things – first, it’s _ten past seven_ , which means he took a lot more time than he meant to (stressing over problems that exist only in his own mind, as his therapist would kindly remind), and second, something smells heavenly – he’s pretty sure it’s not coming from any room on his floor, but that's as far as his certainty goes because the Haus never smelled this good before. 

He leaves his room to find a naked Shitty just as confused in the hallway. “Brah,” Shitty frowns, the bedhead making it pretty clear that he’d just woken up. “…did someone break in to bake a pie?” So that’s the smell! Yes, pastries. 

Jack shakes his head. 

“I’m going… go down… find out.” He waves frantically, and rushes downstairs to what's possibly the weirdest come out of inviting Eric in. The kitchen is more or less clean - at least tidied up a bit - who would have thought the counters were actually white marble? There’s something in the oven, there’s coffee brewing in the coffee machine he had no idea they still had after it was mistakenly used as a bong during a kegster. And there's Eric, leaning against the counter, talking to Johnson, of all people. 

Johnson looks at him and offers that familiar creepy, knowing smile. Eric waves back and smiles apologetically. “Sorry,” And looks around like he’s a child caught doing something wrong. “…when I’m on a kitchen, sometimes pies happen?” Johnson laughs openly, as if that’s hilarious, and Jack simply stands in the doorway, mildly confused. 

“I’m going to leave you two to your alternative timeline, since I’m just an expository plot device in this very moment — but save me some of that pie, will you?” Johnson says, before making his way out, and Eric looks both amused and confused. Jack is just really, **_really ___**confused, and slowly turning impressed. How many things can Eric Bittle do?

Jack stares at the kitchen, with its clean dishes and cups in disbelief. He didn’t even know they had flour in that house – and if he ever humoured that thought, it’d probably be years-old flour with hazardous mold in it. 

“Are you ever going to stop impressing me?” Jack asks, one eyebrow arched as he takes in the pie scent, perfuming not only the kitchen but the whole Haus. Eric all but chuckles and shrugs, looking right back at him. He looks more relaxed than Jack’s ever seen him so far – for a millisecond he wonders if it has to do with pies.

“Maybe you’re just easily impressed by your average southern boy.” Eric says pointedly, and Jack shakes his head. 

“There’s nothing average about you, eh?” he looks a bit taken aback by that, but not in a bad way. 

“Maybe you’ll have to find that out.” He says, and Jack hadn’t even thought about the double-entendre of this exchange until Eric’s eartips were blushing bright red. Then he feels mortified. Not that he didn't want to find out – because he did, but he didn’t _mean_ to make it sound like that. 

But then again, Eric had rolled with it. 

They’re still way too close and staring at each other when loud footsteps announce Shitty into the kitchen. Naked. Of course. “Brah, who—oh, it’s you.” And he looks as appalled and shocked by the sort-of-clean kitchen as Jack feels, maybe even more. And he's so used to the sight of Shitty's glorious nakedness he forgets that for any reasonable human being, naked people aren’t the norm, so the next thing he knows is that Eric’s face has assumed the color of a ripe apple. A very unimpressed apple. 

“ _It’s me?_ ” Eric asks back, in an almost deadpan tone – and Jack realizes he’s just saw someone change into another person entirely in the spam of two seconds. It felt like someone had replaced Eric with a complete stranger. Jack stepped back slightly, squaring his shoulders. Suddenly, the air around them felt heavy with tension. He looks back at Shitty and he knows his friend well enough by now to know that, despite the expressionless face, and the ‘cool story bro I don’t care’ vibe he gives off, he is just as startled by the sudden change. Like it wasn’t exactly his presence that set Eric off, but what he'd said.

Jack knows all too well how that feels – but, unlike Eric Bittle, clearly, he didn’t have a temper problem. 

He doesn’t count the minutes, but it feels like they're staring at each other forever, and anxiety bubbles up in his chest, like a weight he can’t shake off. 

He’s never been more grateful for Ransom's and Holster's loudness – and the way they come barreling into the kitchen like big hungry dogs that had just been promised a treat.

Okay, maybe a little less than that, but they sure do come bursting in.

The more Jack sees, the less the understands about Eric Bittle. Because Eric sees Shitty and Ransom and Holster and he's got that sharp, angry look that looks sculpted on his face.

And Zimmerman almost feels like he should be sorry about something, but there's nothing to be sorry for - right? It’s like tension spread all over the kitchen, and no one knows what to say or how to break it – Jack feels like he might throw up from nervousness. He doesn’t understand why Eric looks like a cornered animal, an angry one at that, and he wasn’t even aware he knew Shitty or Rans or Holts, but by the looks of him, he does. And not only he does, but he didn’t want to. 

“ ‘scuse me.” Eric speaks stiffly, and simply cuts through the two defensemen in his way, making his way out of the Haus.

Then it's like Sophie’s choice on his hands – he can either keep himself from any more stress or worrying and let Eric go. Or he could go after the football player and try to understand whatever was going on. He looks back at Shitty, who’s sunk into his usual stance, staring at the counter top; he looks back at Ransom and Holster, who are just as clueless as he is, and decides he’s let enough people walk away.

Not this time. 

Jack peels himself off the counter and pats Holster’s shoulder. “Watch the oven, I guess?” He doesn’t know a lot about baking, but he knows stuff burns. 

Jack charges after Eric, who’s already on the sidewalk, sprinting to reach him before he disappears – and the blond clearly knows he’s following suit, because he just picks up his speed a little. Still, he’s short and not a match for Jack if he’s not effectively running. The hockey player reaches out and grabs Eric’s arm, making him turn around in one fast, fluid movement – and what happens next is fast. He hears Eric blurt ‘I’m sorry!’ and flinch, sinking into himself and raising one hand as if he’s about to get struck. 

Jack pulls his hand away like he's just been shocked, as if an actual electric current had gone through it, and they stand there, looking at each other for what feels like forever. 

Eric lowers his hand slowly, and despite his carefully emotionless face, Jack can the facade cracking, and he wonders for how long he’s been doing this, suffering in silence, because he can see the guy falling apart behind those big doe eyes. 

“Eric.” He starts slowly, unsure of what to say. He steps back, out of the boy’s personal space, which made him look exponentially more relaxed. “You’re trying.” This is an odd conversation for anyone who’s neither him nor Eric Richard Bittle. “But you’re not getting there.” And to that, Eric side eyes him almost suspiciously. if he wasn’t so pale and visibly disturbed, Jack would be pretty sure he was about to get punched for nosing in something that was none of his business. 

“Let me help you.” He goes on, slowly, as Eric stands there looking smaller by the second, making Jack’s chest ache with anxiety and something else he can’t put his finger on – not yet. “That’s why you came here, right?” The blonde boy frowns, opens and closes his mouth like a fish, like he’s trying to find the right words to say, and they refuse to come. Jack raises his hand. “That’s why you came to me, right?” He’s not sure of what he’s saying but he finds out that he _needs_ to, at least, give it a try.

“It’s… I didn’t… mean--” Eric’s voice comes low, barely above a whisper, his eyes averting Jack’s like he’s ashamed. He probably is. “I didn’t know it was you.” And the smaller guy puts up a thumb to his mouth, biting the nail as Jack intently watches him. “I don’t— ’m not here to drag you down.” Eric drawls out slowly, his accent making him sound even more vulnerable, and Jack’s chest aches for him again.

“I didn’t think for a moment you would.” Eric finally raises his eyes to look back at him with a mix of shame and suspicion, Jack stands exactly where he is, his shoulders lowered as much as possible so the other boy wouldn’t feel as threatened. (It was a tactic that worked with animals, might as well try with short football players.) “I mean it.”

Eric keeps biting on his nail before replying. “Everyone else disagrees.” And averts his gaze again, staring intently at a patch of grass. “I didn’t come here for you I—it’s so—complicated.” His voice keeps breaking and he keeps trying to hold himself, Jack witnesses it while his chest tightens. He hates it. 

“I’ve got time.” And he looks at the watch on his wrist, then back at Eric, only to find brown eyes staring back – and there’s the suspicion again. “How about that coffee I promised you? Annie’s, right?” There’s no chirping, no banter and no mockery this time. Jack feels like he’s dealing with his younger self and needs to thread carefully. As Eric nods back, he finally realizes: 

He cares so much about a stranger – only he’s not a stranger anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three thousand years late because adult life sucks, mark my words.  
> About this chapter: four issues in and no answers and more questions and I'm sort of sorry to everyone going 'WTF IS GOING ON' guys, guys pls I SWEAR things will be answered. At some point. It is sort of meant to sound like the characters know shit we don't because, ah well, they do and we don't. (Clearly I'm an eloquent genius.) The slowest burn of fucking ever and there's like a pile of chapters to go.  
> AND THEN WE HAVE JOHNSON. (How could I not.)  
> ALSO WE HAVE SHITTY and the boys and Y A Y.  
> Also Jack knows things but not all things and still thinks Bitty Is So Damn Cool. ~~How about we change that.~~  
>  Okay so. For now I think that's all, chap 5 should come yet this weekend and maybe some answers to like, the 3 people including Nate (TheSawJones) that are reading but I'm super happy y'all are and even more for the comments left. I thrive and survive on being validated, no shame. So far I'm loving to write this fic and now I'm just rambling.  
> Thanks to whoever is holding on to whatever is happening here!


	5. A Boy Named Bitty

**A Boy Named Bitty (or) Anger Management ******

********

As they stand in line to order, Jack watches Eric from the corner of his eyes. 

They’re not talking and the silence between them is uncomfortable. Not on his account, really, because he’s mostly quiet in anyone’s company – ask Shitty. But Eric – for most of their newfound friendship, if he could even call it that way, he thought the blonde footballer was like him: focused on his training, kept, calm – blasé, for all that mattered. 

The more he learned about Eric Richard Bittle (Junior), however, the more that fallacy fell apart right in front of his very eyes. And the more time he spent with Eric, the more he got to break down that preconceived idea he had of the boy in his mind.

Jack found himself liking the real deal a lot more. 

And watching Eric from the corner of his eyes, he can tell some things about him - like the fact the boy is full of energy from the way he keeps tiptoeing and rolling on the balls of his feet. Or the fact he’s not insecure at all: unlike Jack himself, Eric moves with certainty, like every movement is carefully thought and yet deliberate, like he’s challenging the whole world when he tilts his chin. There’s a lot of bravado for someone with such narrow shoulders and slender hips – Jack admires him; he doesn’t think he could ever be that strong. 

(But Eric’s also scared.) 

“What you want?” Jack blinks at the question, and finds Eric’s expectant eyes on him. For a moment, he thinks it’s some sort of disparaging, angry question, only to realize a second later they’re in line to get coffee. Eric tilts his head just slightly and offers a smarmy smirk – nothing like the sincere smile he’s seen that day back in the rink, and yet nothing like the weirdly, twisted smiles he’s been getting all morning so far. It’s so confident it throws Jack off for a second – it reminds him awfully of Kent. 

“Uh,” Jack replies, eloquently. 

In the pause, Eric looks back at him, smile still frozen on his face, but his eyes tell a different story.

“You look like a black coffee, no sugar, kinda guy.” He decides, and Jack blinks, staring at him dumbfounded for a moment. Eric ignores him completely and goes on with the order, now busy with his phone. “Nutritionist thing? The only three things in the world that have about zero calories, mustard, black coffee and water.” He points out, arching a knowing eyebrow. Jack sneers at that because how many times had he heard that during childhood? 

“You’re not wrong.” He concedes, with a nod. 

Eric laughs quietly: “You’re so boring, Zimmermann, what a tool.” Jack knows that coming from anyone else, they could actually mean it, but it’s the quip in Eric’s lips that gives it away, the way he eyes Jack quickly – checking to see if no offense was taken. Just another chirp in that strange way in which they get acquainted with one another, just like the morning runs and the text messages. 

Jack laughs.

They’re not in line for long, but he knows there’s something wrong and the notion becomes stronger every passing second – he can _feel_ Eric’s tension, like he wants to run away from whatever talk they’re about to have. If it was him, he’d be throwing up with nervousness, he has to commend Eric on his confidence. 

(Later on, he realizes that confidence it’s just another layer of his carefully put mask and kicks himself mentally for being so slow.)

He does arch his eyebrows at Eric’s order, however – he didn’t even know one could add that many flavorings to one beverage alone. “That thing is taller than you, you’re going to end up diabetic, eh?” Eric shoots back a mildly-offended-looking glare, but that smirk is still there. 

“At least I’m not a robot.” He quips back and trots off for a table. Jack is standing right there because he has no idea where Eric picked that from – it’s hilarious and odd all at once -, before he actually follows the blonde.

They’re sitting across from one another and Jack allows him to mull over his cup for a while – it’s not like he feels the need to fill every silent moment with words, he doesn’t need that. He never has. Though the less they talk, the more on the edge Eric seems to be, like a ball of suppressed energy, barely containing himself from bouncing around, and then:  
“I didn’t come here for you.”

There it is. Jack looks back right at Eric, who’s glaring angrily over the cup’s lid, but it doesn’t feel like it’s aimed at him exactly, it’s just part of that pent up energy that Eric is always buzzing with. Jack doesn’t say anything, waiting for him to go on and he does, as he dissects words and try to make them sound better than they probably feel.  
(Jack knows this feeling exactly, can almost feel his own nervousness picking up, as if the words are slipping away from his grasp, and he’s not even the one talking).

He’s still staring at Bittle when he goes on: “After…” And when he pauses, Jack doesn’t ask. There is only so much Holster and Google could tell him, and if Eric won’t say, he’s not going to ask. He would like to have the same kindness extended to him. “Everything.” Eric settles for the word, “She thought I shouldn’t be home.” And then there is the hunch in his shoulders and the lingering angry glare that starts to fade away slowly, giving place to something else Jack can’t exactly place. “Not home—I mean, I could’ve gotten a scholarship anywhere, I _could_.” 

It’s the tone of his voice that gets to Jack, just like in their morning run; it’s like he’s trying too hard to keep up the confident tone, to keep his face as expressionless as possible, and failing horribly hard. Or that’s just because they’re so alike, two frail branches under the shade of the same tree – as if Jack hadn’t tried every excuse in the book and worn out every facade and mask to exhaustion himself. He’s not going to point that out or say anything about it, but it hurts, watching from an outsider perspective this time, as someone else is crushed under the weight of the world right before his eyes. 

“I didn’t even know about you until I got here,” he’s biting the tip of thumb’s nail as he speaks, and Jack keeps watching, like he’s witnessing a train wreck, and he can’t look away. The words don’t really hit him immediately, and they don’t matter because the more Eric speaks, the more he wants to know. 

The more he worries, too.

“You need to calm down, Eric.” It’s the first thing he says after silence takes over, heavy and tense, between them. The shorter man looks back at him, abandoning most of the anger, just taking with that tired look Jack is fairly used to by now. He knows it from experience. 

“I am calm,” he says, and the moment the words are out they both know it’s a damn lie. 

Then here is a pregnant pause before Eric cranes his neck to the side, as if trying to see something over his shoulder.

“AAAYYY DICKY!” Jack didn’t even saw it coming – the guy appeared out of the blue, as if spat by earth itself into the coffee shop, with the sole mission of ruining the conversation. The slap he gives Eric’s back is so strong Jack feels it himself, the sound ringing on his ears. His heart skips a beat at how Eric pales and seems to shrink for just a split second. It’s fast, blink-and-you’ll-miss it: he bounces back right away.

There it is – that familiar smarmy, coy expression. 

(Jack decides once and for all that he hates it.)

“What’s up, Ty.” Eric’s voice is just one inch from deadpan as he fist bumps the guy, who’s wearing a letterman jacket emblazoned with the football team’s dragon and a ‘T’ on the chest (so creative, wow). A teammate, for sure. ‘Ty’ vaguely reminds him of Holster, tall and blonde, but doesn’t look half as smart, on Jack’s opinion.  
Maybe he just decided he doesn’t like him as he stands there. 

“Whaddup bro and bro,” he offers Jack a hand that, for Eric’s sake, he shakes back. 

“Jack, Ty; Ty, Jack.” Eric says with a dismissive wave, in the same standoffish stance he’d assumed back in the Haus. It makes Jack’s nerves crack. 

“Hockey ‘aite? ‘Swawesome.” Jack doesn’t know how to feel about him other than negatively, even if he’s pretty much like every other damn athlete guy he’s ever met before. (He’s a lot like Rans and Holts, but at the same time, not at all.) 

“Yeah, haha.” It’s probably the best reaction Jack can conjure at this point, but Ty doesn’t seem to mind it all that much, turning back to Eric instead, who looks like a scared, cornered animal if Jack’s ever seen one. His body language speaks volumes as he presses himself against the chair. His eyes, however, are filled with something else entirely.

“You sure you’re not a cheerleader with all that sweet in your caf, bro? Wus’ that, pumpkin spice?” Ty mocks, and Jack knows, _he knows_ it’s just your usual locker room banter, just as he knows Shitty would have a field day breaking the footballer down for that single sentence, but he stays in his lane. It’s not his place to say or do anything, especially watching Eric cold sweat and simply snort back a reply:

“Oh yeah, because that’s literally the only thing cheerleaders drink, right? No surprise you can’t get a date, man.” For a moment, Jack thinks Ty is too dense to even understand what Eric just spat back, but the big-and-blonde guy just laughs back. 

“Bro, you like a bullet, no one ever sees it coming.” It’s probably the most frustrating and infuriating exchange Jack has ever witnessed, and he’s lived with Johnson for years. “Well ‘nyway, gotta go, don’t steal our rookie, ey? You’d probably do better at Hockey than football.” He slaps Eric’s back again, and Jack feels _this_ close to reaching out and slapping Ty’s wrist away from the short blond, who like he’s being threatened at gunpoint. (He’s ignoring the jab directed at Eric too, having to remind himself it’s not his business. But **if** Eric Bittle was one of his teammates, he’d probably would have punched Ty by now.)

“Eh, I won’t.” Jack can’t even force one annoyed laughter as he responds loftily, but Ty is gone as suddenly as he appeared.

The silence between them is palpable. 

He’s not good with people, never was, he’s not good at reading feelings and emotions and things in between the lines – but then again, Eric Bittle is an open book to whoever was paying attention, and Jack is. He’s pretty sure this is a one-way road he’s about to take, one he can’t come back from once he’s started following it, but he’s past the point of caring. Up to this point, Jack had been the one in need of support, the one in need of attention, of reassurance that he was indeed doing the right thing, even if few besides Shitty would ever pick up on that. Now, however, he feels like he’s the one needed, and not for a hockey final, not to score the winning point. No, he was needed in a different way, though he couldn’t quite put it into words just yet.

“I’m,” Eric clears his throat, shoulders as tense as before. “Bathroom, be right back.” He says hurriedly and disappears, leaving Jack sitting back with his million thoughts and simmering anger. 

God, he hates football bros.  
(But what is Eric to him, then?) 

After five minutes of sitting by himself, he wipes out his phone to find out new texts from his teammates in the group chat. Specifically:  
**A.B.**  
how long does this pie needs 2 be in the oven

**A.B.**  
I feel like a single mother to it

**A.B.**  
can u ask to its actual mother

**J.O.**  
y is he mad @ us

**J.O.**  
did we fuck up this time

**J.O.**  
holster says the probabilities are about 95,57% that we did

**J.O.**  
numbers don’t lie

**B.K.**  
update: the pie is divine

**B.K.**  
can one of us marry the lil dude 

**B.K.**  
this some top notch pie

**B.K.**  
Id suck a dick for this pie

**A.B.**  
lbh youd suck a dick for less

**J.O.**  
r we rly going there

**B.K.**  
holtzy is not wrong

**B.K.**  
but this is some dick-sucking worthy pie

**J.O.**  
can we steal him from the dragons

**J.O.**  
Jack tell him we’ll make him happier

**A.B.**  
how do you bropose to someone?

**B.K.**  
dibs

**J.O.**  
id be offended but then this is some really dick-sucking worthy pie

**L.D.**  
dudes its too early wtf IS GOING ON HERE

**B.K.**  
we found a dude we want

**L.D.**  
??????

**L.D.**  
hockey worthy or looking worthy

**L.D.**  
what does pie and dick sucking have to do with anything

**A.B.**  
lards ur not even here

**A.B.**  
but this is like 

**A.B.**  
heavenly pie

**A.B.**  
better than my aunts

**J.O.**  
dude ur aunt sucks this is amazing pie

**J.O.**  
jack bring him back pls

**J.O.**  
tell him were sorry

**A.B.**  
no tell him shitty is sorry idk what 4 but he is

**A.B.**  
also fuck u rans

**A.B.**  
also lards his ass is nice 2, like

**A.B.**  
nice ass, gr8 cook

**A.B.**  
perf

**L.D.**  
I’m going back 2 bed

**B.K.**  
bruh

**B.K.**  
yeah I’m supes sorry 4 whateves

Jack can’t help laughing at the exchange and how eccentric his team is.  
(He also sees Johnson typing and decides to close it before things get too weird.) 

He’s still sitting by himself, sipping from his all-black-no-sugar coffee, and it’s helpless to think they could, actually, steal Eric from the Football team. Probably no one else but him knew how fast he was on those skates, and he was already an athlete, his body was obviously prepared, he was trained, not to mention that if he could get tackled, he could get checked with no problem. Well, maybe a little bit of problem? 

Thinking back to the pieces of the game he’s watched Saturday night, he realizes Eric didn’t get tackled once. He jumped and dodged and spun to avoid any sort of physical contact and managed it pretty well. If his reactions to Ty were anything to go by, Jack could aim high and say he didn’t like to be touched at all. In contact sports, that was one hell of a problem indeed, and completely unavoidable for Ice Hockey. Sort of unavoidable in life, really. 

He’s been sitting by himself for fifteen minutes when he finishes his coffee and starts to wonder if Eric simply left him there, but that didn’t sound like him at all.  
But honestly, _what_ did he know of Eric Bittle? How could he tell the other guy wouldn’t just ditch him and go lick his wounds by himself? Somehow, Jack just felt like he could. He just knew Eric wouldn’t do that. He was, indeed, so sure of it that he just decided to get up and get Eric another of that disgustingly sweet thing that by then had already got as cold as his own heart (haha) by then. And a muffin. Eric looked like a muffin guy. 

By the time he gets back to the table, Eric is already there, looking like a kicked dog. 

“You didn’t have to.” His voice is soft, and Jack’s almost one hundred percent sure he had been crying. As Canadian and polite as he is, the hockey captain ignores it.  
“I wanted to.” He says simply, and sits the new spicy-hazelnut-strawberry-latte-whatever in front of Eric along with the muffin. 

“Thank you, Jack.” He’s not entirely sure if it’s the southern lilt or the way his name rolls off Eric’s tongue, but it makes his skin crawl in the best of ways. 

“Don’t mention it.” It’s a polite, empty exchange, but that’s because he doesn’t know what to say or what to do that won’t make Eric look like he’s being tortured for information. They both remain in silence for a while. He doesn’t take out his phone, although he looks at the clock on the wall – this one silence is less uncomfortable than the one before, as he watches Eric tear the muffin to pieces with clever fingertips and picks it apart as if he’s analyzing it before eating. 

“They like your pie.” Jack blurts out after about ten minutes or so. Eric looks back, puzzled for a second, before realization sinks in. The tips of his ears blush again before he turns his eyes down to the muffin. “I’m pretty sure it’s great, they wanted you to quit football and join us for it.” Jack says, and the smile that creeps up on Eric’s lips is worth saying that ridiculous sentence out loud. 

He looks positively delighted. 

“That’s some county fair winning pie, I’ll have you know.” Eric states, tilting his chin up proudly, and Jack tries not to revel on the smile that is _finally_ not a carefully planned expression. It’s still tight around the corners, but it’s as genuine as they come and it definitely suits the other guy a lot better. 

“Is there anything you don’t excel at, Bittle?” And to that, Eric smiles a bit more, and takes a long sip from his cup before stopping to ponder.

“No, not really, I’m just really good at things.” He laughs, and so does Jack. Then he pauses, and raises a hand, looking almost solemn. “Actually… I’m a terrible student, honestly, my grades are God Damned awful.” He declares, which only makes Jack again. 

“One can’t always win, eh?” Jack shakes his head, amused, and Eric nods, with that smile still lingering on his lips. Jack takes satisfaction on the fact they haven’t actually wasted a trip to Annie’s. Maybe he didn’t get all the info he wanted from Eric, maybe he still knows an exact sum of almost zero about his new friend, but it’s been a really long time since he actually sat down with someone and laughed about things that didn’t matter. It felt nice for a change, not to think about Hockey or his father or anything else. It’s not only the friendly chirping between them – it’s the give-and-take they have going. He can’t find a rhythm like that with anyone else, not even Shitty. 

“Okay but if the subject was The Frequent Baking of Pies, I’d ace it.” Bittle responds proudly and holds out a piece of his muffin. “Here, try this and I’ll actually give you a lesson on the subject.” Eric sounds extremely confident right then and there, and Jack realizes, for the first time, that he’s not overdoing it. He’s not faking it, and it’s sort of adorable. For a guy that had represented his school two years in a row and went on to win Nationals, and something around three or four different awards, it was talking about baking that got him excited?

In a background thought comparison, they were on the same level and yet Eric didn’t seem nearly as excited about Football as Jack could be passionate about Hockey.  
Slowly, the pieces start making sense, but he needs to know _more_. 

“Alright, talk food to me, then.” Jack smirks and leans over, actually accepting the piece of oat muffin. Eric seems extremely pleased with himself as he leans back and taps over the table. 

“Okay so, this one is really good right? But I’m pretty sure it could be a lot lighter if—“ He’s listening. He is, more or less, but he’s also paying attention to how Eric changes into someone else entirely. How many changes like that is he going to witness in the span of a few hours? He wonders if he was ever like this, ever changing, unstable, before rehab and Samwell. Or maybe it’s just Eric who really needs to find his own way. 

Jack keeps watching as Eric goes on rambling about the muffin and oats and baking, and Jack likes this Eric better than every other he’s met so far. It’s as if Eric unfolds into a brighter person as he goes on about this thing he loves so much. Right then, there’s nothing of the somber and angry personality he seems to keep dragging around and falling back into like some fight or flight defense mechanism. Maybe Jack is over-analyzing, trying to look too much into a guy that has a story so close to his. Maybe he’s projecting, or maybe—maybe Bittle feels it too, how similar they really are. 

“Sorry,” Eric blurts out at some point and Jack blinks, suddenly pulled out from his thoughts. 

“What for?” He frowns, and Eric looks away, embarrassed. 

“I talk too much about… stuff.” Jack doesn’t think that’s a problem at all. He doesn’t think Eric talks nearly as much as he should, if he’s supposed to look that bright and excited whenever he opens his mouth about blueberries and raisins. 

“I don’t mind.” The other boy looks skeptically back at him, as if he’s aiming to hurt him. Jack swallows, unsure if he’s actually going the right way. He wants to get to know Eric better. He doesn’t feel as lonely in his presence. 

“Thank you, Jack.” Eric mutters almost meekly, deciding he’s being genuine, and Jack leans back. 

“Anytime, Bittle.” Wrong choice: Eric sighs and looks away. 

“Don’t call me that, ‘s my dad’s name.” Oh, okay. 

“I won’t call you Dick either.” He quips back, trying to sound as assertive and reassuring as possible. “Doesn’t suit you.” 

Eric smiles back. “Just Eric then?” But Jack dissents. 

“What about Bitty?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For all that matters, if anyone feels like cursing at me: [Tumblr](http://thebahwrites.tumblr.com/)  
> Yay chapter 5! I keep saying I'm going to post it sooner but my midterms were happening and I ain't no Bitty, I actually pretend to study SO.  
> Things we have in this chapter: one really long coffee shop scene, a new football bro ~~(poll: do we like him?)~~ , groupchat texts and Jack being over his head, jfc dude get a grip. Also. **Bitty** , FINALLY.  
> Idk if this actually sheds any kind of light on Bitty but HEY, chap 6 is Bitty's POV soooo.  
> Thanks to everyone who's subscribed, left kudos, bookmarked and commented so far, I really really appreciate it. If just one person is reading it'll make me happy. <3

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so.  
> This is my first Ao3 published thing and I'm hella nervous so please be nice?  
> Clearly there's a lot going on here and I wanted to write more but THAT'S PROBABLY GONNA HAVE TO WAIT NEXT CHAPTER.  
> Basically the inspiration comes from: Coach Bittle and his love for football. One really long 'What If' scenario? Something like that. There's gonna be a lot of things happening next but for now: On Your Left.  
> I know jackshit about football but a lot of research has been going on, no one kicks me if I write something weird.  
> Okay so, whoever reads this, Next Chapter, Bitty's POV or we shall go on with Jack? Asking the important questions.  
> Just in case, this is my [tumblr](http://thebahwrites.tumblr.com/) in case y'all feel like hating on me and stuff.  
> Many unsolved questions, right? I feel the same, I feel the same.  
> Thanks anyone who decides to read, we'll be back sometime soon, I hope this is likeable enough because I'm hella excited to be writing it - kudos? comments? thumbs up? maybe?


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